My Unfinished Novel

By Joshua A. Apolonio

Still, I write, and here I forego.

A pencil composes, sharing what I know.

Lamenting ideas, and here I’m contented,

I thought I’m finished, but I’ve not yet ended.

I still go write, but can’t fill the court.

I can’t deny, put a little more effort.

This piece, this work, maybe I’m not fit;

Really, I can’t learn how to fill all of it.

So much depressed, what will I do?

Sit on the couch, or think on what’s new.

Alas, everyone! Now I know how!

Just think about thoughts, from then ‘til now.

Still, again, I’ll write my new novel.

My pencil will write, will be dragged to hell.

My paper, at last, will be filled with letters.

Chapters of random thoughts all about my lovers.